


Gilded

by siesiegirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siesiegirl/pseuds/siesiegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Manhattan, 1887. Mr. Gold was injured in the Civil War twenty-five years ago. Now he's a railroad robber baron, and he has a new maid...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Unusual

_Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, 1887_

~*~

"You needn't be having to do this, my girl," her father said, almost pleading. He reached for her with his bad arm and winced.

"Don't be daft," Aoife shook her head, smiling gently that his own body should prove her point for her. She carefully rearranged the sling that held his splinted arm. "I'm the only one who _can_ work now. Of course I have to."

"But, for _him_..." her father frowned.

Aoife sighed. She wasn't particularly fond of the idea, either. "It's money, Da, and we need it." She couldn't support both of them on what she had been making as a laundress.

"That's the nub o' the matter: everything is money to him, even people." He looked pointedly at his arm, crushed in the mill yesterday. He'd been dismissed and replaced as quickly and thoughtlessly as if the foreman were merely changing his shirt. Workers were easy to replace: there were ten men on the street for every one in a factory, and the wheels of industry didn't slow down to allow injuries to heal.

Her father's erstwhile employer - and her new one - was called Mr. Gold for a reason; perhaps the others of the Big Five – business partners, the closest thing he had to friends, yet not very close at that – knew his real name, but even they referred to him as 'Gold,' instead. Whoever he had been before, that man had been subsumed by this money-making and -craving behemoth. He had a knack for making money just appear at his fingertips, it seemed, and was ruthlessly pragmatic about only devoting that money, as well as his time, to endeavors that would make still _more_ money, though his estate was already vast beyond imagining. People said he could buy a small country, if he were so inclined. He would only be inclined, of course, if he could turn a tidy profit, and it would have little to do with the welfare of those hapless citizens.

"I'll be all right, Da," Aoife assured him with a smile. Maids didn't have to worry about dangerous machinery, after all, and she was a good worker, obedient and deferential to her superiors and friendly with her equals. She would give no one in that grand house any reason to dismiss her; she knew she was just as easy to replace as her father.

She stepped away from him to bustle around his room, setting things to rights and making sure everything would be manageable with his one good arm. Aoife would have been nervous to leave him even at the best of times; it had been just the two of them for so long, since her mother and little brother and what might have been a sister died in a fever on the ship coming here, ten years ago now. They were each the only thing the other had left in the world. Da made noises every now and then about her getting married, but how could she leave him? And yet, here she was doing so. Aoife disliked that element of her new position more than the specter of the notorious Mr. Gold himself.

"Try to rent my room," she said as she worked, keeping her hands and mind busy.

"I will," her father nodded patiently, having heard all this before.

"Mrs. Connolly across the hall says she'll come make a supper for you once a week, and I'll come home on my free day and cook enough that will be lasting you the other days if you're careful about it."

"That'll be grand, love."

"And Cathleen will come to fetch your washing of a Tuesday. And Tam down the hall will bring firewood for the stove..."

He shook his head with an indulgent smile. "Come here to me, miss," he said, holding out his hand and remembering to use his good one this time. She stopped her fussing and stepped over to him, taking his hand in both of hers.

" _Máthair_ said to take care of you," Aoife said, a little defensively.

"And ye've done a grand job," he assured her. "I'm not so laid up as all that: I've two legs and an arm and my wits left to me yet, don't be forgetting. I'll miss you, my girl, but I'll be well enough, you'll see."

"I'll come back, when you're healed," she promised vehemently, "I'll not stay longer than I have to."

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but stopped and shook his head and squeezed her fingers. She knew he thought - maybe hoped - that she would fall in love with her new life, even though it would be living and serving in a stranger's house. It _was_ a remarkable opportunity: escaping these tenements, maybe even moving with the household when Himself decided to switch coasts - as he was wont to do every so often - using the great railroad he'd helped to build. _California!_ It was almost as far away as Ireland. Everyone dreamed of going west, and so few actually managed it. Maybe she and Da would, yet, once he was better. Aoife smiled and squeezed his fingers back as a knock sounded at their door.

"I'll answer that," she said, crossing his little room to the kitchen, which was also the dining room, and also the nearest thing they had to a sitting room, if for no reason other than it was the only room with chairs. She opened the door to find George Buckley standing in the hall, and she could see Mrs. Connolly's curious face peeking out her own door behind his generous shoulder.

"Mr. Buckley, come in." Aoife opened the door wider and stepped back. The neighbors were nosy creatures and prone to gossip; whatever he had come here to say or do, she didn't intend to feed the rumor mill by facilitating their eavesdropping, though his visit itself would have them tittering for at least a week.

"Thank you." He gave her his usual charming smile and stepped inside, taking off his fine hat. Everything about him was always fine, despite the 'man of the people' air he tried to project. His suit was well-cut and carefully just on the humble end of fashionable, probably pressed by a girl just like her, and Aoife wondered if he even knew that girl's name.

"It's a pleasant surprise, this is," she smiled politely as she closed the door behind him. "Shall I put a kettle on?"

"No, please, don't trouble yourself," he replied, "I won't be long, I only wished to ask after Mr. O'Halloran. Ah, there he is," he smiled as her father stepped through his bedroom doorway, "Good day to you, sir."

Her father nodded, "Good day, George, lad." Years ago, he began allowing her father to use his Christian name in private. Aoife knew he wished she would, too. "You'll be forgiving me for not taking your hand." He nodded to his sling.

"No, of course," Mr. Buckley shook his head and flashed another smile. "How are you? Do you have everything you need?" He looked from her father to her.

"We do," Aoife nodded, not for the first time feeling a bit guilty for having unworthy thoughts of him, when he was so helpful most of the time.

"I should have known you'd have everything well in-hand, Miss O'Halloran," he smiled at her. "I'm not accustomed to feeling useless, but you deflect me at every turn with your self-sufficiency."

Aoife smiled despite herself at his praise. "I do what needs doing," she shook her head and made a dismissive little gesture. "Da needs help, and I help him."

"I do wish you'd let me help _you_ more," he said, looking at her intently. She glanced at her father, but if anything he looked pleased. Pleased! She was only surprised he hadn't thrown her at Mr. Buckley already. Everyone else in the neighborhood thought it was as good as done, but Da, of all people, should have known better. "But I understand you've forestalled me yet again and already found a new position?"

"I have," she nodded, glad that she could say so. Helpful he was, but Aoife didn't care to be beholden to him any more than necessary. Even this apartment with its tiny rooms was more than a family of only two should have been able to afford, but Mr. Buckley had been pulling strings for them practically since the day they landed. She couldn't pretend she didn't know why.

"Gold, is it?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well. Half the neighborhood was in his pocket and no one kept secrets from him. "Be careful there, they say he's a heartless devil."

Oh, she'd heard. All day it was all she heard. It almost made her want to go even more and prove them wrong, somehow, because even the infamous Mr. Gold was at least a human being and _couldn't_ be as bad as everyone said.

Her father must have noticed her winding up, and stepped in. "None of us here are needing reminded of _that_ ," he said.

Mr. Buckley turned back to her father and nodded at his arm. "No, indeed. Well, I'll do what I can to find you something suitable, so she can come back to us quickly, Mr. O'Halloran." He smiled warmly back at Aoife. "You have a real treasure here." 

"That I do," her father nodded, and Aoife found herself wishing that he wouldn't agree so readily. She was also discomfited to hear her own words from earlier now spoken by Mr. Buckley. She didn't want him pulling his strings to get her out of this position she was so proud of having found and obtained on her own. Every little thing she could do outside of his sphere of influence – and there weren't many, the way he had his fingers in practically every pie – felt like a victory. She wished Da would try, too, but he was utterly under the younger man's spell. Sometimes she thought the whole blasted island was. Mr. Buckley would be ridiculously pleased if he knew such a thought ever crossed her mind, so she tried to shake it off immediately any time it did so.

"Is it certain you aren't staying for some tea?" she asked, more out of a habit of hospitality than any genuine desire to prolong his visit.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid I have other calls to make today," he said, and finally turned back toward the door. "If you need _anything_ , please, let me help." He caught Aoife's hand and kissed her fingers like she was some grand lady, bowed to her father, then set his hat back on his head and let himself out.

Aoife sighed in relief when the door closed behind him, until her father spoke up.

"It's fond he is of you, my girl." He watched her with a little grin, and she knew he was probably imagining his grandchildren.

"I know," she mumbled, and looked away because she couldn't bear to see his hope. For a few years now, any time she saw Mr. Buckley, she anticipated a certain question for which she hadn't yet figured out the answer. It would be an advantageous match, there was no denying that; she and Da would want for nothing for the rest of their lives. Aoife knew most girls were meant to dream about such a wealthy and handsome man – and he _was_ handsome, even she could admit that – falling so desperately in love and whisking them away from these filthy rookeries and off to the gleaming Upper Ten Thousands; but for all his good looks and charm, Aoife couldn't fall in love with him in return. She had tried, for a while, back when she had first discovered his particular interest in her; tried to picture herself as his wife, to think about how their children might look, even to imagine his kisses, in her youthful innocence, or his fingers in her hair. Nothing had stirred her heart. She thought – _hoped_ – that the fact he hadn't asked yet, despite everything, meant he possessed some modicum of empathy, and was aware she might not give him the answer he sought. It was, ironically, the only thing that made her think fondly of him at all.

"Your mother didn't mean..." The frown Aoife could hear in her father's voice made her look up at him again. They so rarely spoke of her mother. "She wasn't after wanting you to spend your whole life looking after an old man. She'd be wishing you to be happy, you know. To have a family of your own."

"Oh, Da," Aoife said, sensing where this was going, _again_. "I am happy. I _am_. I could never mind being here with you. I love you."

He shook his head. "'Tisn't the kind of love a girl your age should be thinking of. Or, at least, not the only one."

"I have never _had_ any other love," she replied, and it was the simple truth. Mr. Buckley had never moved her heart, but neither had anyone else. Aoife wasn't willfully denying herself; indeed, she thought falling in love would be the very greatest adventure, and she did long for it. She wanted it too much, in fact, to settle for anything less.

Her father looked at the door Mr. Buckley had walked through. "He's a well-favored lad and he fancies you," he said, "He'd take care of you, and be good to you, so he would."

"I know, Da," Aoife nodded, but that wasn't entirely true, so she amended, "I know he would try." That should be enough. For many people, she knew, that was more than enough. As a man – as a husband who had once laid his entire world at the feet of the girl he loved and feared she would find it lacking – Aoife knew her father naturally sympathized with Mr. Buckley. What more could a man give or promise, than a life of companionship, of contentment; a life of comfort, even, when for people like her and Da, 'comfort' was so rare as to seem outright luxurious. Mr. Buckley could give Aoife so much that her father could not, and it broke her heart to confess, even to herself, that there was still _more_ a wife could want. "I don't think we would make each other happy," she said softly, at a loss as to how better to explain what she felt, and also knowing that her father truly did wish for nothing but her happiness.

He sighed, though he smiled fondly at her. "You _will_ be after knowing your own mind, so you will."

"I hope so." She smiled back at him, glad the awkward moment was past. "Now go rest while I collect my things before supper."

He pretended to grumble, but retreated to his room and Aoife turned to hers. It was small, and almost identical to her father's and every other in this building, though her window looked out of the facade onto the street below, instead of the narrow air corridor between their building and the one next to it: lock-by-jaw like hundreds - _thousands_ \- throughout the city. Aoife hadn't wanted to take the better room, but Da had insisted, and now she was glad of it because he would get a better price renting this one than his.

She laid out her best dress, dark grey wool with starched collar and cuffs, on her bed. She would change into it after supper, so it could stay clean. Her underthings and petticoat and stockings didn't need changing, and she brought her extras and her nightgown out of the small chest of drawers in the corner and folded them neatly into a stack on her bed. She added the little pouch that held her needles and spools of white and black thread, and wrapped it all carefully in her third dress, the only other one she owned, turning it into a tidy bundle. She only had the one pair of shoes; she'd need to brush them and see if she could work a bit of shine into the overused leather. All that remained was her shawl, her mother's comb and mirror, and the book she was halfway through reading.

The book, she frowned at. It wasn't hers; Aoife had never owned a book, though she'd read dozens. They had all been, as this one was, Mr. Buckley's. Or rather, his late father's. Mr. Buckley allowed her to borrow them, and it was her one hypocrisy: she didn't approve of him socially nor care for him personally, but he had _books_. Not that he read any of them, himself, and the few times Aoife had tried to spark something between them, to talk to him about what she read and to share with him something she loved so much, he had been utterly uninterested and changed the subject. She sighed and tucked the book into her bundle.

Supper was simple fare, as always, and a little earlier than usual, so she could cross town before dark. Her father – thankfully – didn't try to dissuade her anymore. Perhaps he realized it would only make her dig her heels in deeper. He did offer, however, as she cleared the table, "I should walk with you." 

Aoife smiled but shook her head. "It's better I walk alone before sundown than you walk alone after, especially with your arm as it is."

He frowned, plainly frustrated with his own limitations now. She knew he blamed himself for it happening even more than the foreman, who'd really had no other choice but to dismiss him.

"I'll be fine, Da," she assured him with another smile. How many times had she said that in the past two days? She washed up and then went back into her room to clean her shoes and change into her good grey dress. She used the comb and mirror to tidy her hair, then tucked them into her bundle and wrapped her other dress around it, too, securing it with the sleeves to make it easier to carry. She had no bag nor any kind of luggage; the only traveling she had ever done was coming here from Ireland, and everything the entire family had brought fit into the one oak chest sitting at the foot of her father's bed now.

Aoife pinned on her hat – it matched her dress because she wore them both to mass – and wrapped up in her shawl. She picked up the bundle of her few possessions and looked around her room one more time. It wasn't much of anything, but it had been home for nearly half her life, and here she was, leaving with everything she owned tucked under one arm and not leaving any of herself behind. Her father waited by the front door to kiss her forehead and give her his blessing, and they managed it without tears. Mrs. Connolly once again stuck her head out into the hallway as Aoife passed, and wished her well, as did the other neighbors who realized something unusual was happening in their little corner of the world.

She left the tenement building and took a deep breath before heading off in the direction of the good part of town.

Mr. Gold lived, of course, in the most lavish home Aoife had ever seen. Four stories above ground and one below, it took up the space of probably several tenement buildings like hers. It seemed obscene that an unmarried man with no family should have such a place all to himself. What did he _do_ with all that space, anyway? Aoife made her way around the side and back of the house to the kitchen door, as she had done yesterday when she came to apply for the position, and was let in by another servant, whose purpose she couldn't identify by his livery, and who instructed her to wait in the packing room while he fetched the housekeeper.

Aoife remembered her from the brief interview, though if she recognized Aoife's face or name in return, it did nothing to warm her expression. The housekeeper was a dark-haired woman with a haughty air, who eyed Aoife's dress and the bundle under her arm with obvious disdain. If this woman was only a servant in this house, yet behaved so, perhaps the stories about her new employer were true after all. Aoife tried not to swallow audibly under her measuring gaze.

"Well, then. This way," said the housekeeper. Mills, her name was, and titled 'Mrs.' by virtue only of her senior position among the servants. She motioned Aoife to follow her with such an imperious gesture it was obvious there was a hierarchy in this house, and Aoife was at the very bottom of it. Aoife was used to that; she was Irish, after all, but she wondered, as she followed Mrs. Mills - with her dark eyes and high cheekbones - where _her_ people had come from.

"Mr. Gold takes his meals at seven in the morning, noon, and six in the evening, usually in his office," Mrs. Mills explained as they started up the servants' narrow staircase. "The dining room is used only on formal occasions, and you probably won't be involved in those in any way, except to prepare rooms for any guest who might be staying." She rattled off the rooms on each floor they climbed past so quickly and automatically that Aoife had to wonder how often they needed to hire new servants.

"This floor," Mrs. Mills said as they passed another landing, "has Mr. Gold's bedroom, sitting room and personal library..."

"I thought the library was on the last floor," Aoife said, certain she had heard her _just_ say so.

Mrs. Mills stopped, and turned to her with an arched eyebrow for daring to interrupt. "Yes, dear," both her tone and her false smile belied the endearment, "he has two," she replied, and turned back up the stairs, as if that should have been obvious, and made perfect sense. Aoife just stared. Two libraries. How many books must he own, that he needed _two_ libraries?

"Don't touch the books, other than to dust them," Mrs. Mills continued. "Mr. Gold is particular about their arrangement and care." She stopped once more and looked back over her shoulder at Aoife. " _Can_ you read, anyway?" she asked.

"I can," Aoife replied, perhaps too defiantly, but she was gratified by the woman's surprise.

"Well," she huffed, and resumed climbing. "You have more important things to do with your time now. Everyone here is very busy, and shirking is not tolerated. Mr. Gold is an important and demanding man. He makes Wall Street bankers flinch, and there are thousands of girls out there like you; don't think you're anything special and can't be replaced."

At last they came to the top of the stairs and Mrs. Mills led her out into a hallway. "Mr. Gold is very punctual. Learn his routines and don't attempt to clean a room he will want shortly. If you last long enough, you'll develop your own routines, but we'll see if it comes to that." Her tone said plainly that she didn't expect it would. "This one is yours," she said, opening the door to a room into which Aoife's bedroom _and_ the kitchen at home could have easily fit. Aoife tried not to gape and give the contemptuous woman further reason to think her merely some guttersnipe as she stepped closer to the gabled window between two beds. _Wooden_ ones, not metal with rusty springs. "You'll share it with the other maid, Verna. She'll show you around in the morning, but don't slow her down: she's prone to dragging her feet anyway. There are uniforms in the dresser; I suggest you use the rest of this evening to make sure they fit. Try not to make too much of a hash of it, replacements will be deducted from your wages."

She all but slammed the door behind her, and Aoife was surprised not to hear a key turn; it felt so much like she'd just been locked in a tower.


	2. A Generous Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am a generous man, and I do love a desperate soul."

_Upper East Side, Manhattan, 1887_

~*~

Gold tossed the newspaper onto his desk, narrowly missing his breakfast plate. "The man is stubborn and an idiot," he declared, leaning back in his chair with his coffee cup. "He should have sold to me and saved himself some trouble."

"I hear he's had other offers," Jefferson replied, and took a sip of his own coffee.

Gold raised an eyebrow. "Find out who and how much," he said, waving a hand carelessly, "the usual." Buying out competitors could be _so_ tedious.

Jefferson grinned. "Already started, sir."

"Good man." Gold nodded. No one else could make heads or tails of his secretary's eccentric system of 'organization,' but the man had the most extraordinary memory and a good head for numbers and schedules and things Gold himself couldn't be bothered with.

"And what about the wedding, sir?" Jefferson asked, setting his cup next to Gold's breakfast tray.

"What wedding?" Gold frowned as if he had honestly forgotten.

"Rutherford's daughter, remember?" Jefferson replied, not fooled for a moment by his evasion. "It's been weeks, now. They need an answer, one way or the other."

"They don't want me there," Gold scowled and sipped his coffee, the sweetness of its sugar and cream clashing with his mood. Nobody would actually want _him_ at a wedding.

"That's... possibly true," Jefferson hedged, diplomatic but at least honest. "But they did invite you."

Gold gave him a smile that could as easily have been a grimace. "Only to be polite, my boy." Mr. Gold was, after all, not a man to cross.

Jefferson shrugged as if the solution were obvious. "Well, then you could politely decline."

"No, no, that won't do," Gold shook his head, exasperated, and sat up, setting his cup and saucer on the desk with a rattle. "Can't slight them by refusing, now, can I?" He sighed deeply. "I'll go."

"Will you be bringing a companion?" Jefferson asked, and butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. Gold shot him a withering look and he held up a hand in surrender. "I wouldn't dare to make an assumption either way, sir," he swore, with enviable sincerity.

"No. I will _not_ have a companion," Gold replied, glaring at his cup as if _it_ had offended him.

Jefferson nodded and made a note in his ledger, seemingly at random since he didn't look before he opened it, loose papers sticking out at all angles. "Very good, sir. I'll send the reply immediately."

"Is there anything important today?" Gold asked with a bored sigh.

Jefferson pulled a sheaf of papers - how could he tell which ones? - out of his ledger and handed them across the desk. "Messrs. Evans and Wright have an appointment at ten this morning to negotiate a loan."

"A loan?" Gold raised an eyebrow and took the papers. "That's the banks' business."

"Of course, sir," Jefferson nodded, "but Morgan referred them to you."

"Did he, now?" A smile crept over Gold's face. J.P. Morgan knew better than to waste his time or, more importantly, his money. "Well, then, I suppose it's worth hearing them out." He flipped through the papers in his hands, which proved to be a proposal, patent application, and schematics; Gold was no man of science, but he knew enough to have a rough idea about what he was looking at. "Not bad," he mused, "Gutsy venture. I can see why Morgan wouldn't take them." He tossed the proposal on top of his discarded newspaper. "But... I am a _generous_ man," he looked across the desk at Jefferson and shared a shark-like grin. "And I do love a desperate soul."

~*~

As much as a man with a cane could, Gold almost pranced into the conservatory later that morning, where Jefferson was already entertaining their guests over tea.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, and they shot to their feet to shake his hand.

"Mr. Gold, sir, thank you for meeting with us," Wright said earnestly. 

Gold smiled. "It's my pleasure, gentlemen," he replied, and the men waited for him to take his seat before sitting down again as well. Jefferson relinquished his tea-pouring duties to bring his ledger out to record the discussion in his seemingly haphazard way. "I've looked over your papers," Gold said, nodding to them, "and I find your idea... promising. However, I am certain even you are aware that this venture is not without its risks."

Evans nodded. "Of course. But we anticipate a large return."

"Indeed," Gold replied. "And I think you shall have it, so I'll lend you the money." The men smiled like children on Christmas morning. "Jefferson has drafted an agreement with my conditions." He waved and Jefferson dutifully drew out two papers from his ledger and handed them to their guests, who looked them over, but frowned.

"Five percent interest?" Wright said. "A bank would give us three."

"A bank wouldn't give you a red cent for this," Gold replied, tapping their proposal papers, "and we all know it. Why else would you be here?" The two men exchanged an uneasy look, but continued reading. Gold steepled his fingers as their frowns deepened.

"Mr. Gold," Evans objected, "surely you aren't serious about this? Ownership?"

"Consider it... collateral," Gold replied with a shrug. "Ten percent, since we're in this _together_. If all goes well, you can buy me out once the loan is repaid, and we'll all be very happy men. If you default, I get _all_ the rights, so at least I can attempt to recoup my losses."

"There won't be any losses, sir," Wright declared, and Gold cocked an eyebrow at him. More often than not, bravado was stupid and undeserved, but it was almost always amusing.

The men looked again at the contract and then each other. "May we speak privately?" Evans asked.

"Of course," Gold nodded magnanimously. The two men stood up and walked a ways apart, deeper into the room and nearer the burbling fountain.

"Tea, sir?" Jefferson offered him in the meantime, but Gold waved him off. They wouldn't be here much longer, if he was reading these two right. And he always did.

They came back to the little table, rather grim but resolved. "All right," Evans said, exhaling a deep breath as if he grudged the response. Gold grinned. They didn't even try to haggle; not that it would have done them much good, but most people did anyway. These men, at least, knew they occupied a weak position. Their invention was revolutionary but that also entailed risk. Progress was fast these days; someone was always coming up with something new, and only half those ideas ever saw much traction, no matter how brilliant - it simply wasn't possible to try to implement every single thing that came along. Ultimately, Gold felt this one was a reasonably sound investment, and though he was hardly in the habit of throwing his money away, what was a great amount for Wright and Evans was, frankly, hardly even worth a passing mention to a man like him.

"Excellent," he nodded, and Jefferson opened an inkwell and held up a pen, producing a third copy for them all to sign, as well as handing Gold his checkbook. Gold made rather a show of filling out the check with his practiced carelessness and stood up, handing it to Wright and Evans along with their copy of the signed contract. He smirked as they tried not to stare at the figure as they each shook his hand and thanked him profusely. "Gentlemen, I bid you good day, and good luck. Jefferson will walk you out."

He smiled at their retreating backs as Jefferson led them back out of the conservatory, and sat down again to finally pour himself some tea, the pleasure of a favorable deal sweetening it more than honey could.

Jefferson came back in and resumed his seat and his own teacup. "That went well," he observed, settling into a decidedly casual sprawl now that their company was gone.

"Indeed," Gold nodded. "I had expected them to put up a bit more of a fight. Be a little more entertaining, at least." Of course, Wright and Evans probably didn't find anything about it entertaining.

Jefferson shrugged. "They need the money, and you're the only one who will give it to them."

Gold clicked his tongue. "Lend them, my boy. Lend." Anything from Mr. Gold always came with strings. Everyone knew that.

Jefferson nodded with a bit of a grin. "Of course, sir."

"So, nothing else today?" Gold asked, setting his cup down once it was empty and plainly expecting that there _should_ be.

Jefferson glanced at his ledger and shook his head. "No, sir," he replied, "That was all."

Tempted as Gold was to string him along, he was in a good and therefore merciful mood. "Isn't it your daughter's birthday?" He cocked an eyebrow at the younger man.

Jefferson was, obligingly, surprised. "Um, yes. It is."

Gold smiled. Jefferson was so used to keeping track of his affairs that sometimes he seemed to forget that Gold _could_ , in fact, remember a few things on his own. "Well, if I don't need you, there's no reason to keep you here, is there?" He shrugged with the same indifference with which he had signed the check.

Jefferson beamed. "Thank you, sir. She'll be so pleased."

Gold waved off his gratitude. Generous was one thing, but he couldn't be seen to be _soft_ , God forbid. "Well, it's a slow day, anyway," he demurred.

Jefferson, of course, knew him well enough to see right through him, but also well enough to know better than to point out the fact. "Thank you, again," he said, standing up and gathering the contracts and his ledger and inkwell. "I'll just file these and then go home."

Once Jefferson left the room, Gold did allow himself to smile. He'd met little Grace, a time or two. She was a pretty girl, and clever and polite and sweet-tempered; Jefferson had done well despite bringing her up alone. Every now and then Gold thought the man should remarry, but, true to his eccentric nature, he somehow made it work in his own inimitable way. Gold tried not to think about his own child - no longer a child, now, of course – and what a hash he'd made of things. When he'd been Jefferson's age the world was still bright and full of promise, but he'd lost that optimism and his own wife shortly after the war that damn near took his leg. Now he knew the only shine to be had in the world came from coins.

Gold pushed up out of his chair and headed toward the stairs and his office. Certainly there was some work he could find to do, instead of skulking about and feeling sorry for his sad past.

He was surprised, when he stepped into his office, to find someone already there. Surprised and slightly annoyed: servants, unlike children, should be neither seen _nor_ heard. Mills should have explained that to this one. Not that any servant worth their paycheck should _need_ it to be explained, but, well, so few actually were.

To her credit, at least, this creature was all manner of contrite and demure: gasping in dismay when she noticed his presence, and keeping her eyes averted as she tried to scurry from the room. "I'm sorry, sir," she muttered.

For some reason, her deference annoyed him even more. True, Gold reveled in his fearsome reputation when it came to business matters and avoiding pithy conversation during his rare social excursions, but to have some slip of a girl in his own house cower from him as if expecting a lash, when he hadn't yet said or done a single thing other than walking into the room... well, a reputation was a double-edged thing, it seemed.

Because he would never apologize for walking into his own office, but feeling a little guilty for unintentionally scaring her off, instead he called after her with a rather inane, "You're new, aren't you?"

She stopped in her tracks, _just_ shy of the doorway and freedom, looking like a rabbit in a snare. Gold could almost see the wheels turning in that little head, calculating whether and how to answer. Perhaps Mills _had_ explained the ways of this house to her, and now she was caught between following those instructions to leave him the hell alone, and obliging him by responding to his question. Again, to her credit, she chose him. A clever thing, then, or a brave one.

She nodded meekly and turned back to him. "I am, sir." Quiet and inconspicuous, just as a maid should be. His home had seen plenty and would see many more, but something about this one struck Gold. She was probably trying to hide that accent – many like her did; _he_ had – but that dark, curling 'r' was likely something she would never fully get rid of.

Gold grinned and steepled his fingers. "Oh, and where are we from?" he asked, with no small amount of glee at having someone new to poke and prod and gauge reactions.

"Hell's Kitchen, sir," she replied, a bit reluctantly, but her employer had asked her a question and a good maid should answer.

Gold pursed his lips. Perhaps she was not so brave after all. "I meant before that."

"Ireland, sir." She looked supremely uncomfortable, and he wasn't enjoying it as much as he usually did. Had she lost positions before, for being Irish? Gold knew that happened sometimes.

He hissed and shook his head. "You persist in giving only the obvious answer. Do give me some credit for having ears and a brain between them. Though you've said naught but two words together other than 'sir,' _Ireland_ , at least, is apparent." She looked up at him, and Gold found himself stung a little by her surprise and relief. Had she honestly expected him to turn her out? His reputation wasn't as bad as that, surely.

" _Dún Ceartáin_ , sir, County Mayo," she replied, rather less like a kicked puppy now.

Gold smiled, and with an exaggerated motion, laid his hand on his chest. "Five words all together! Be still my heart."

Perhaps emboldened that he hadn't fired her, the girl dared to frown at him. "You mock me, sir."

That only made him laugh. "I'm a rich man," he waved his hand dismissively. "I mock everybody."

She opened her mouth, and from the look on her face, he was in for a hot retort. Gold was actually rather disappointed when instead she colored, closed her mouth, and bowed her head again.

"What's your name, then, girl?" he snapped, irritated at this return to bland meekness after her surprising display of spirit.

"Aoife, sir," she replied, dutiful and quiet again.

He raised an eyebrow. "Eva?" he asked, deliberately mispronouncing it and hoping to stir her up again into saying more.

Obligingly, her head jerked up. "'Ee-fa,'" she corrected, and belatedly tacked on, "sir."

Gold smirked. "Beauty, radiance. Also a warrior, as I recall the story." He could like this one, and found himself hoping she'd manage not to get on the wrong side of Mills, whose standards in regards to servants in this house were even more exacting than his own.

The girl's - Aoife's - brow wrinkled in what was probably confusion or surprise or both. Gold grinned and tapped his forehead. "And a brain, remember? Names are... a particular hobby of mine." He'd got his start by being good with names, and old habits - especially beneficial ones - stay with a man.

"Then may I be asking yours?" Aoife inquired, fearlessly.

He was amused and surprised, both by the content of her question and the brazenness of the blue eyes she turned on him. "Mr. Gold, of course," he replied automatically, his customary eloquence and humor momentarily lost to him. "Are the drawings in the papers as bad as that?"

Aoife shook her head, and _smiled_ , of all things. Gold was certain he'd never made a servant smile before, and it was... disconcerting. "I do recognize you, sir," she said, "and I know who you are. I'm after asking your _name_."

He was struck dumb by her forthrightness. Everyone called him Mr. Gold, and had done so for years. At first, he'd been merely amused by the moniker, but it had stuck, and he found it suited him more and more as his life continued its madcap upward trajectory. He'd come to adopt it, embraced it fully; he now wore it like one of his fine coats, and its veneer felt like a second skin after all these years, or like armor. His son had always hated it.

"MacEachran," he replied, disarmed, his own father's long-forgotten accent slipping through.

"May I call you Mr. MacEachran, sir?" Aoife asked, not even the slightest hesitation over the name so many Americans seemed incapable of pronouncing.

"Call me whatever you like," Gold said with an indifferent flick of his hand, too thrown by her manner, and hearing his name spoken for the first time in years, to think better about offering a servant such liberties. He didn't know why he said it, why he answered her at all. Half an hour ago, he would never have imagined he would allow a chambermaid to ask such impertinent, intimate questions. Her eyes weren't _that_ blue.

"Shall I carry on with dusting, Mr. MacEachran?" she asked, with another bit of a smile. Aoife – _beauty, radiance_ – had, it seemed, been named well.

Lest her smile draw one from himself, Gold frowned. More at himself for being an old fool than at her, but even so. "Yes. Of course," he said, waving her back to the mantel. "I was..." He couldn't for the life of him remember why he came in here, now. Damned eyes. "I wanted a book," he lied with a shrug, "I recall now I left it in the library." Gold turned toward the door, but hesitated. "There's no need to... mention my name to the other servants," he said, turning back to her. "We don't want to confuse anyone."

"I shan't, of course, sir," Aoife nodded in agreement, so sincere it seemed she hadn't even _considered_ speaking his name where someone else might hear. That was... gratifying, though still rather awkward and probably inappropriate to share an intimate secret with a chambermaid. He cursed himself for a fool, he who was always so careful with his words. Why had he let her rattle him? "Good morning, Mr. Gold," she inclined her head.

That felt much more comfortable, safe once again within the strictures of formality. "Good morning..." Gold said, halfway through a bow before he caught himself. _She's a maid, not a debutante_. "... Aoife."

She blushed like a debutante, however, which Gold was _certain_ he'd never made a servant do, and it was even more disconcerting than her smile. She returned to employing her feather duster with meticulous care, perhaps even more so than before he'd interrupted her. He walked out of the room as if he had always intended to, and shook himself once he was free of her presence.


	3. Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He isn't the monster everyone thinks he is."

_Upper East Side, Manhattan, 1887_

~*~

It didn't take long for Aoife to discover why Mr. Gold had two libraries. The large one on the ground floor was beautiful, pristine, filled with pretty leather covers and matched sets, all categorized and alphabetized neatly. Everything was so perfectly in place that Aoife wondered if any of the books had, in fact, ever been removed from its shelf. The large library was a showpiece, meant to be seen and admired, meant to awe and intimidate his visitors with its implications of his wealth and intelligence. Aoife was coming to learn that was true of most things connected to Mr. Gold.

She liked the small library on the second floor better. It felt... used. Lived-in. Loved. The books here were more often clothbound, they were older, and they smelled. Some of the lettering on the spines was worn off. No two books in the entire room matched each other, and the shelves were filled in no order she could detect: multiple editions of the same book sat on opposite sides of the room, even. Some books lay flat on top of others, where there was room between shelves. Aoife wouldn't have dared to pull one out, even without Mrs. Mills' injunction, for fear she wouldn't be able to put it back _just so_ where it belonged; and she was certain Mr. Gold would notice, like a dragon missing a single coin from its vast hoard.

The thick book on the little end table by the sofa, though, tantalized her as she cleaned the room, and she picked it up and polished the table slowly to give herself an excuse for peering inside its cover. _Our Mutual Friend_. She had to laugh; of course he'd be reading something like Dickens.

"Have you read that one?" his voice called from the doorway, startling her. She'd missed the sound of his cane on the floorboards.

"I have, sir," she replied, turning to him and trying to master her pounding heart.

Mr. Gold smiled, and Aoife tried not to be insulted by his surprise. Had he thought, like Mrs. Mills, that she couldn't read at all? "And?" he asked, coming deeper into the room and leaning a hip against the arm of the sofa. He rested his hands on his cane in front of him. "What do you think of it?"

Aoife was stunned. No one had ever asked her opinion about a book before. Da listened patiently, indulgently, whenever she babbled about something she had read; her neighbors shook their heads and wondered aloud _why_ she read so much; and Mr. Buckley steadfastly rebuffed her every attempt to draw him into conversation about the books he allowed her to borrow. Now her employer, of all people, the fearsome Mr. Gold, was standing there asking for her thoughts as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a tycoon to casually discuss literature with a chambermaid.

"I..." she shook her head to gather her thoughts, so she wouldn't prove herself the culchie she'd thought he considered her. "I enjoyed it, sir," she replied, "I wasn't expecting to like Bella Wilfur as much as I did, by the end."

He nodded with a smile. "She didn't start out very sympathetic, did she?"

She laughed, "Sure, not at all." Unsympathetic, vain, mercenary, and shallow. Aoife had been prepared to hate her and even take a perverse delight in what she expected would be a bad end for her. "But most of the characters aren't, really. I suppose that's rather the point, though, in a book about money and how it affects people."

"You think money makes people not sympathetic?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her, and if they weren't already talking about it, Aoife would never dare imply to _Mr. Gold_ , of all people, any disapproval of wealth. Still, she proceeded cautiously.

"I think people who are after thinking too much about money don't think enough about other things," she replied, "A man canna serve two masters, after all." Since he looked more amused than angered, she continued. "People who have money want to keep it, people who don't have money want to get it, and both sides are often, to be sure, not very inclined to think of the consequences of their actions. Mr. Boffin was himself a sweet man, until the money soured him."

Mr. Gold smiled and held up a finger as if to admonish her. "That was a ruse, remember; engineered by Mr. Harmon to test Bella."

"'Twas," she nodded, hitting a stride, "and it only worked because it's believable, so it is, that even someone so humble and kind as Mr. Boffin could be seduced and twisted by his own greed. It's dismayed Bella was to see it but wasn't surprised at all. And that's rather sad, it is."

"Would you have spoken up to him, as she did?" he asked, crossing his arms comfortably and appraising her. "Gone off to marry the penniless 'Rokesmith' for love?"

"Sure and I would marry for love," Aoife replied automatically, as if he had asked her the color of the sky. "I should think anyone would." Was _he_ so blinded by his own wealth that he could no longer see the merit of anything else?

"I should think a girl in your position would be a bit more practical," he said, and though he probably meant no offense, she couldn't help but bristle.

"A girl in my position, sir?" she asked, carefully controlling her tone. It wouldn't do to get into a row with her employer.

"You haven't much money of your own, have you?" Gold stated carelessly, seemingly oblivious to the tightness in her expression. "If you were to marry for love - presumably someone in a similar situation to your own, with whom you shared experiences, had things in common, and so on - your children would grow up just as poor."

He didn't understand, obviously. How could he? Aoife spoke carefully, as if explaining to a child, but tried not to sound patronizing. "Poor in possessions, that's as may be, but to grow up in a house filled with love? What greater gift could a parent give their child?" She and Da had never had much money, true, but she had never felt _poor_.

Mr. Gold laughed a little and shook his head. "What else did you enjoy?" he asked, nodding back to the book and returning them to the original subject. She almost wished he hadn't; it was refreshing to have a civilly-worded difference of opinion. She hoped she hadn't offended him.

"Lizzie Hexam," she replied, "she has the truest heart of anyone in the entire book, so she does. And Eugene Wrayburn and their courtship."

He smiled wryly and nodded. "Ah, yes. True love conquers all."

"'Tisn't only that," Aoife said, and paused as she tried to find the right words. "They feel... _real_. Their story, among all the rest, is the one that could happen to anyone. If I had a sister or a very dear friend, she could be Lizzie. And I felt badly for her; it's a terrible position she was in, to be sure."

"Between Wrayburn and Bradley Headstone?" Gold asked. "Yes, pretty young ladies do seem to find themselves in such situations."

She couldn't help a little grin, impertinent though it may be. "Is it from personal experience you're speaking, Mr. MacEachran?"

"Pfft," he rolled his eyes and laughed. "What experience would I have with pretty young ladies?" He held his arms open, and Aoife took the invitation to study him. There was grey at his temples and in his sideburns, but that seemed to suit him. Likewise the lines in his surprisingly expressive face. His clothing was impeccable, as always; worn to make an impression, not for comfort, but he wore it well, regardless. He was a small man - notwithstanding his commanding presence and his depictions in the newspaper cartoons - but well-proportioned in shoulder and waist and leg, and he had a long, confident stride despite his need for the cane. No, Aoife could find nothing objectionable there. In truth, though he was not strikingly handsome she found the entire effect much more pleasant than she perhaps should. 

Mr. Gold seemed to be waiting for her censure and confused that she wasn't offering any. "You were young once, you were," she said, sidestepping his question. She could not agree with him that it was impossible he should have known pretty young ladies, either in the past or now. 

"I was, indeed," he nodded, and his voice turned bitter. "Young and strong and idealistic as most of my generation were, and look where that got us."

"Do you mean the war, so?" It was before she came here, before she was even born, yet it seemed to still haunt this country she now called home.

"Of course I mean the war," he snapped, and Aoife shrank back into the quiet maid she should have been all along. 

"I didn't realize... I hadn't thought of you fighting, sir," she said, the romantic image of a uniformed young man gamely risking his life for his country sharply at odds with that of the man facing her now.

"Oh?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Thought I had bought my way out of it, perhaps? No, the war was before..." he waved his hand around the room, "all of this."

Was it the war that had changed that young man so much? Hardened and callused him into the indomitable Mr. Gold? "Is that how you were injured, so? If I may be asking?"

"Mm, yes, that," he said, looking down at his leg with palpable disgust and thumping his cane against the floor. "That was a cannon."

"Are you after shot?!" she gasped, forgetting to be demure in her shock.

"Alas, no," he sneered, though less at Aoife than at himself, or perhaps the memory, "nothing so glorious. We were transporting them and the ground was soft after a rain, and one broke loose, and I... well, I was in the way. Though I was certainly very little inconvenience to the cannon, it was a great inconvenience to me," he grinned wryly at his own dark wit, "and perhaps also to the second-rate sawbones who fancied himself a proper doctor, though it didn't take him long at all to decide there wasn't anything to be done but take my leg and send me home." 

She grimaced. "Sure, I'm sorry, sir." He really hadn't come back the same man, at all.

Gold waved away her concern. "It's nothing to do with you. Long before you were born, no doubt. I trust you'll treat this with the same discretion you do my name?"

"Of course, sir," Aoife promised. She couldn't imagine breaking such a confidence.

"Good," he nodded, and stared gloomily into the fireplace. Was he there again? In all the mud and pain?

"And young ladies?" she asked, to bring him back to the here and now and to change the topic. "You are after evading my question." Her tone was gently chiding, and she hoped it would bring back his humor, or raise his eyebrow at her cheek, at the very least.

"Well," he huffed, "there were certainly none for a dried-up cripple afterward."

"So before?" she pressed, hoping she wasn't overstepping her bounds, but she wasn't sure how else to pull him out of this melancholy, and she _was_ curious.

"Before, I was married," Gold replied quietly, and his expression was one of such grief that it was obvious what had happened.

Her heart ached. "She died, so?" she asked, as gently as possible. This had been the wrong topic entirely; she should have just left him alone to brood instead of pouring salt in these wounds.

"Aye," he nodded, sounding both sad and angry.

" _An-leithscéal_ , sir," Aoife murmured, English not nearly enough to express her sympathy. She felt compelled to comfort him, somehow. Her hand even lifted a little before she stopped herself. Touching him would likely be unwelcome as well as wildly inappropriate, grief or no.

Mr. Gold waved his own hand dismissively, but didn't turn his attention away from the hearth. "It's a matter of public record, and very long ago."

"What was her name?" she asked, since he was talking instead of retreating in on himself. Perhaps it would help.

"Margaret," he replied.

"Margaret MacEachran," she said, and smiled. "That sounds nice, so it does."

He frowned, however. "I daresay she wasn't fond of it by the end," he said, so low Aoife thought she might not have been meant to hear it. She wished she hadn't.

"I..." Was there nothing she could say that wouldn't turn against her? She was trying to help and only making things worse. 

"Yes, yes," he said, finally shaking out of his reverie and looking at her again, "carry on." He flicked his hand toward her and the rag still in her hand. 

"I'm nearly done," she assured him, "I can finish quickly, or leave you the room..."

"No, go on, I don't mind." He turned and took a seat in the large chair near the fireplace. He didn't look as comfortable as he should have there, and small wonder. Aoife turned back to her work and resolutely kept her mouth tight shut, chastising herself for letting her curiosity cause him so much pain.

Once finished, she lingered in the doorway, unsure of how to leave him. "Can I fetch you anything, sir?" she asked, "Have the kitchen wet some tea?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine," Gold said, and at least essayed a faint smile in her direction. 

'Fine' is probably not what Aoife would have called him, but it was a more polite dismissal than she might deserve at the moment, and she nodded in acknowledgement before stepping away. Once in the hallway, she took a deep breath to clear her mind of Mr. Gold's tragic story. Such hurt, no wonder he was a little prickly, and no wonder he had turned to money to fill the void. She thought, though, that if his losses still affected him so, the seemingly forgotten Mr. MacEachran might not be as deeply buried as he thought.

She wasn't sure why that should be such a comforting thought, but it brought a little smile to her face as she turned toward the stairwell down to the laundry. 

~*~

"You must be the new girl," a voice spoke behind Aoife as she walked from the staircase to the airing cupboard. She turned to find a strange man standing in the hallway.

"So I am, sir," she replied cautiously, "And who might you be?" He wasn't dressed as a servant; in fact, he wasn't dressed as anything she could identify. His suit was well-made and in good repair, but... _odd_. The cut was simple but the collar was a bit too high, and the lapels a little too broad. The fabrics and their patterns varied, united only in being all some shade or other of brown: his trousers were solid, the coat pinstriped, and the waistcoat was some swirling brocade shot with silver. His cravat was red paisley and she couldn't tell without staring whether its knots were intricate or simply haphazard. Someone had made the ensemble with great care and yet not much concern for adhering to fashion. His hair - also a shade of brown - was unfashionable as well, a trifle long and with curls allowed to make their own mess of it. She might have thought he had simply wandered in off the street, if they weren't on the top floor. Who on earth could he be?

"My name's Jefferson," the man replied, with a grin and a little bow.

"Aoife O'Halloran," she replied with a curtsey, thankful the linens she carried spared her the awkwardness of offering her hand to this odd man. She waited for him to continue, but when he didn't, she prompted, "Is Jefferson your given or family name, sir?"

He shrugged. "Either," he said. 

Aoife laughed, despite herself. "That's a strange thing to say, it is."

"Well, I'm a strange fellow," Jefferson replied. If anything, he seemed pleased with the idea.

"I can see that," Aoife looked at his oddly-matched clothes. "Are you a friend of Mr. Gold?" she asked.

"Friend?" He seemed to consider before answering, "No, I wouldn't go that far. I keep his papers."

"Oh!" Aoife said, delighted at something in this conversation making sense at last. "The secretary. Mrs. Mills is after mentioning you, but not your name."

He smirked and gave her a conspiratorial look. "I don't imagine it was a very complimentary mention, either."

Ah, like that, was it? "'Twasn't uncomplimentary, sir," she assured him. "She only said that Mr. Gold meets with his secretary in his office of a morning and not to interrupt."

Jefferson smiled. "Yes, he's very grumpy before he has his coffee."

Aoife laughed again, though quickly reined it in lest Himself somehow overhear. "You oughtn't to be speaking of him that way," she scolded.

He waved dismissively, a gesture very like the man in question. "Mr. Gold is a man who values honesty."

"Honesty and frankness are rather different things," she noted. Certain people could afford one and not the other; while she would never be _dishonest_ with Mr. Gold, she couldn't imagine ever speaking to or of him as Jefferson did. 

"Very true," he nodded, and smiled at her. "You're a clever thing, aren't you?"

Aoife smiled back, as pleased with his compliment as he had been earlier. "Thank you."

"I seem to have caught you while you're busy," he noted, nodding to the linens as if he had only just seen them.

"I'm just bringing these to the press," she replied, turning toward it again.

Jefferson nodded. "Of course, don't let me keep you."

When Aoife came back from the cupboard, though, he was still standing there. "Was there anything else, Mr. Jefferson?"

"Do you have a little while before your next task, now?" he asked her. 

Aoife looked across the hall at her own bedroom door. She _had_ thought she might finish her book, but she supposed it wouldn't run off without her, and the man was intriguing. "I do, a little while." 

"Perfect," Jefferson replied, smiling, "then would you like to continue this conversation over coffee and chess?"

"Oh," she said, "I don't know how to play chess, sir." Draughts, of course, but no one she knew - other than Mr. Buckley - could afford a chess set.

"Excellent, I can teach you all my bad habits." He swept a deep bow and held his hand out down the hallway. "My office is this way; we'll call for that coffee."

Jefferson's office gave Aoife much the same impression as the man himself had: a little haphazard, but contained enough that it wasn't merely a pigsty. The furniture matched (probably Mr. Gold's doing, and possibly even before Jefferson's employment here) but was placed around the room without any sense of aesthetics or balance, and portfolios and loose papers sat on every horizontal surface. It stood in sharp contrast to Mr. Gold's office, which was large and tidy and meant to make an impression. Jefferson's office felt like an inner sanctum, and Aoife wondered if anyone else ever came in here at all. Did Mr. Gold? Indeed, would Jefferson do anything differently even if he did, careless as he seemed? 

There was, at least, a little table with two chairs, so perhaps visitors weren't entirely unheard of. Jefferson swept the papers off the table, and bustled around the room putting them in what Aoife could only assume were their respective homes. He brought down the chessboard from a shelf and opened the drawers in its sides to pull out the pieces. She picked one up that was carved as a horse's head, and another that was a little crenellated tower, the only ones that seemed to resemble anything recognizable.

To Aoife's surprise, the person who answered Jefferson's summons was Mrs. Mills herself. "Oh," the older woman said, looking at the two of them in surprise. "When the kitchen said coffee for two, I thought you were with Mr. Gold," she said, casting a judging look at Aoife. Was that disapproval in her voice, or disappointment?

"Mr. Gold is after sitting in the small library, the last time I saw him," she offered, but that only made Mills look at her even more coldly.

"I don't need you to inform me of Mr. Gold's whereabouts," she sneered, and Aoife was taken aback by her venom.

"Well, it was very nice of you to bring our coffee," Jefferson said, standing to take the tray from her, "even if we aren't as important as the man himself."

Mills turned her glare on him before sweeping out of the room.

"Did I say something wrong?" Aoife asked him.

Jefferson shook his head, grinning. "No, not at all," he replied as he set the tray on the table and resumed his seat. "She's... a little prickly about her own importance. Given the lack of a lady of the house, well, she's it, isn't she? She's been here longer than anyone else and she takes great pride in feeling she knows him better than the rest of us."

"Not better than you, certainly," Aoife said as she reached for one of the cups on the tray, already light with cream. "You talk to him every day, you manage his affairs. What does Himself ever say to her outside of the running of the house?"

"I said she takes pride in it – I didn't say it was true," Jefferson grinned, and she chuckled. He nodded to her cup before she could take a sip. "She will have fixed that for him," he warned, "four sugars."

" _Four_?" she raised an eyebrow. "Who would have thought the grand and mighty Mr. Gold is having a sweet tooth?" Not to mention the _cost_ of so much sugar would be obscene.

Jefferson leaned across the table and stage-whispered, "Cancels out the acid he has for blood." 

"Sure, he does not!" Aoife insisted, fighting a giggle. "He isn't the monster everyone thinks he is."

"Shh," He put a finger to his lips and winked, "He'll hear you, and it'll hurt his feelings."

"Well, that won't do," Aoife smirked and sipped her - or Mr. Gold's - very sweet coffee.

"Indeed," Jefferson said, and lined up the smallest and plainest pieces on the board. "Now, these little ones are called pawns..."

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by somethingstately and initially filled by delilahbe on tumblr - thank you both for sharing!
> 
> Beta'd by the fantastic [ishtarelisheba](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ishtarelisheba). Thank you, dearie ;)


End file.
